Tattoo

Bold and blond as beer was he

A heart tattooed on his chest

Yet his sad voice was filled

With a song that was yearning for rest
.

‘Tattoo’

Song by Rafael de León

T
he golden girl had dived off the pedalo. The olive-skinned bald man swam as fast as he could to get a closer view of her returning to the surface, to glimpse her wet body streaming with water in the bright sunlight. The noonday heat was scorching the beach. The bald man swung his legs down, realised he was hardly out of his depth, and tried to spot where his family was on the beach. A cube of a woman was busy washing a child. The man continued scanning the beach, saw he was in no danger, and turned back to get a good look at the golden girl. By now she was swimming on her back away from the unmoving pedalo, which was rocking gently in the calm sea.

That was when he saw the body floating in the water, a bobbing presence like the pedalo. It must be the golden girl’s companion who he had not noticed before. But that did not mean he wasn’t allowed look at her. Nobody could stop him gazing at her, filling his eyes with that solid flesh vivified by the salt and lustrous brightness. His gaze alternated between her as she swam strange bursts through the water and the body still floating obstinately alongside the pedalo. It slowly dawned on him that its position was too emphatic, and contrary to the laws of breathing. But some people can hold their breath for ages, he told himself, and I’m not going to be the fool who shouts for help and then finds the guy is as right as rain and has the girl laugh in his face. Now she was swimming crawl back towards the pedalo, in an easy straight line, as though in her own lane in the sea. She stopped a yard
from the pedalo and stared, first suspiciously and then with growing alarm, at the body, which just went on bobbing up and down as the waves pushed at it. The girl looked round to see whether anyone else had noticed; her eyes alighted on the bald, olive-skinned man, who was no more than twenty yards away. Reassured by his presence, she swam closer to the body. When she reached out and touched it, the strange swimmer floated away from the pedalo as obediently as a dead dog. The girl turned to look at the snooper and shouted something in a language he did not understand. He waited no longer. He tried to swim showing off his style to arrive looking cool and composed alongside this wonderful girl. But the sight of the lifeless corpse won out over his appreciation of her beauty. The bald, olive-skinned man pushed the body to shallower water where he could stand, then dragged it towards the shore. Still screaming, the girl followed him. The noise burrowed its way between those who were swimming and those distilling or drying sweat on the sand. Several swimmers tried to steal the starring role from the bald, olive-skinned man, but he clutched his prize firmly, with one arm looped under the corpse’s arms.

When he reached the water’s edge, four of the onlookers hauled the body out. The bald, olive-skinned man directed operations. They carried it face down, just as it had been pulled from the sea. He was wearing only a pair of trunks. He was young and blond, his whole body suntanned. The four bearers turned him on to his back on the sand. A cry of horror expanded the circle of the half-naked crowd. The body had no face. Fishes had eaten his cheeks and eyes. They quickly turned him over again. It was then that a little kid noticed there was a tattoo on his back. A hand brushed away the wet sand. Somebody read out the motto tattooed on his shoulder-blade:
BORN TO RAISE HELL IN HELL
.

I
t could only be the doorbell. Pepe Carvalho’s hand groped for the alarm clock, but the heart of this nervous animal was not beating loudly. Someone was at the door. He tapped Charo’s naked shoulder where it protruded from the sheets.

‘There’s someone at the door.’

‘Go and open it, then.’

‘It’s your flat. How should I know who it might be?’

‘What time is it?’

By now Charo was almost awake, and seemed keen to know what was going on.

‘One o’clock.’

‘At night?’

Pepe Carvalho pointed to the shafts of sunlight pouring through the shutters on to the bedroom floor. Charo leapt out of bed. Her naked body quivered; she wrapped it in an embroidered silk dressing gown. She put on his slippers, tidied her unkempt hair, and left the room. Raised on one elbow, Carvalho listened to the typical sounds of a door opening, followed by a short conversation, then the door shutting again. The slippers came slapping back across the wooden floor. Charo looked annoyed and disappointed.

‘Fat Nuria.’

‘Who?’

‘Fat Nuria. The apprentice at Queta’s hairdresser’s. It’s you she’s looking for. Her boss wants to see you.’

‘Why? How did she know I was here?’

‘What kind of a neighbourhood do you think I live in? You can send her packing if you’re not interested.’

But Pepe had already left the bedroom. He found himself face to face with a fat adolescent. Her rotund attractions could not hide the look of sly malice in her eyes. They surveyed Carvalho’s only half-hidden bulk with an air of fellow-feeling.

‘The owner would like to see you.’

‘Who is your owner?’

‘Señor Ramón, Señora Queta’s husband.’

‘What does he want?’

‘He says you’re to come. He says it’s urgent. Here, take this.’

She held out a piece of paper. Carvalho pushed open a shutter so that he could read it properly. ‘I’ve got something that might interest you.’ Carvalho dropped the note on to the hall table and went back into the bedroom. His clothes were draped all over a rocking chair. He sorted them out and put them on; Charo meanwhile was busy with her blackheads at the dressing-table mirror.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Are you very busy today?’

‘Four or five of them, from seven on.’

‘They all quiet sorts?’

‘Hmm … a bit of everything. But you can come to spend the night if you like.’

‘I have to go home, to see if there are any letters. I’ve let things get into a bit of a mess.’

Carvalho headed off back towards the hall, then changed his mind and aimed for the kitchen instead. The fridge was as empty as it was brightly-lit. He stuck a finger in the cream on a dish of Lyonnaise potatoes, then licked it. He decided to drink some chilled water and half a slab of chocolate.
He saw there was still some champagne in the bottle that Charo always kept in her fridge. He uncorked it and drank a little of the freezing, flat but welcome liquid. He poured the rest down the sink, but as he turned round, he saw Charo standing in the doorway. Her face was covered in cream, and she was wearing a white dressing gown.

‘Thanks for emptying it for me.’

‘It was flat.’

‘I like it flat.’

‘Sorry.’

By then Charo had already disappeared from the doorway, leaving the way clear for him. He went back into the hall, where Fat Nuria was puffing and blowing impatiently. In the lift he gazed out of the corner of his eye at the adolescent’s fluffy mountains of flesh; she accepted his survey through half-closed lids. Carvalho let her get out of the lift first, then followed her along the pavement. Fat Nuria walked along like a starlet, trying to flick her short, over-lacquered curls into the air. The city was entering its midday period of truce; the air was filled with the creaking sound of metal shutters being wound down for the end of morning business. They walked through several cavernous streets of run-down buildings until they came to Calle de la Cadena. Fat Nuria speeded up and Carvalho soon saw the sign for Queta’s hair salon. Beyond the frosted-glass windows he was greeted by the spectacle of the last clients under hairdryers, their faces distorted by the plastic bubbles and with white towels round their necks. Carvalho studied the hairdressers’ legs. They all seemed to be wearing red plastic slippers. One especially pert backside beneath a blue overall caught his eye.